Raw Redemption (Crossing the Line #4)(8)

With one big hand clapped over his wound, the guy literally had to duck under the doorframe. And as soon as Henrik stepped into the light, recognition tugged at her consciousness, like a fishing line with a wiggling catch at the end. His features were unique—not the kind one came across more than once in a lifetime. Although he was at least half African-American, his distinct brow and cheekbones reminded her of the Eastern European men who occasionally met with her father to talk business. She often found their appearance bold or sharp. This man wouldn’t have been an exception if it weren’t for the softness in his eyes, the inviting curve of his mouth.

He was, in no uncertain terms, dramatically handsome. His current status of gunshot victim made his movements stilted, but she somehow knew with confusing certainty that he usually walked with a swagger. Fluent, irreverent. Confident.

Her father always said she’d been gifted with his ability to never forget a face, and Ailish was positive she’d met this man somewhere before. Seen the way he moved. Not a doubt in her mind.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

His progress toward the bathroom halted, just a tiny stutter, but she caught it. “No. I’ve only seen your picture in the file. Never face-to-face.”

Ailish frowned and followed him into the bathroom, where he’d flipped on the light. Hovering in the doorway, she watched him in the mirror. “Are you sure, because—” He took his shirt off. “Hhhhoshit.”

Henrik passed a glance over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“Uh.” Ailish turned and lunged for her plastic bags of supplies, lined up against the wall of the main room. “I bought a first aid kit. That’s what…I said. Band-Aids and gauze. Other stuff and…stuff.” When she sensed Henrik face the mirror again, she couldn’t help peeking up at his reflection. The man’s torso was like a rock-climbing wall. Muscles so defined, they swelled out, like they were waiting to be used as footholds. Arms like cannons. But holy hell, his butt took the mother-loving cake. The very top curved above the back waistband of his jeans, like two ski slopes made of solid male muscle. She had the sudden urge to slap his backside.

How rude was that when she’d already shot him?

“You all right down there, Ms. O’Kelly?”

“Yes.” First aid kit in hand, she sidled around his distracting form to get between him and the sink. She cringed when she saw the ripped skin of his shoulder, but decided it could’ve been much worse. It looked like she’d just grazed him, thank God. “You should probably call me Ailish. Since I shot you and all.”

His throat moved in a sensual slide of muscle, surely meant to hypnotize the opposite sex, but he didn’t look at her. Had he really looked at her since coming into the cabin? She decided she would remember that.

“Ailish, then,” Henrik rumbled. And finally, finally, his golden-brown gaze fell to her face. “How did you get that black eye?”

Alarm trickled into her blood at the transformation that overcame him. She would swear he expanded, like the Hulk, ready to burst straight out of his skin. As if she’d just received the injury, her fingers lifted to prod at the puffiness. Test the spots that hurt worse than others. “I think your bullet wound is a slightly more pressing issue.”

Ailish could actually hear the grinding of his teeth. “Answer me.”

“No.” She rooted through the kit for a bottle of peroxide and cotton. “I don’t like being ordered around. And I’m very stubborn when I feel like it.”

His breathing slowed, but he appeared quite unsatisfied with her lack of cooperation. “If you tell me who hurt you, I’ll forgive you for shooting me.”

Her chin dropped. “You won’t forgive me otherwise?”

A moment passed before Henrik shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

Ailish huffed a breath. “I don’t know why I care.” She unscrewed the cap on the peroxide with jerky movements and threw the cap into the sink. “Don’t you wonder why you care so much about my black eye?”

“No. I don’t wonder.”

“Well.” Just what the heck was that supposed to mean? “Then I guess we can’t be friends, Henrik. It’s too bad, because you wanted to laugh at my lame joke back on the porch. No one ever laughs at my jokes. And you can’t even feel bad about it because we’re not friends.”

His expression was indiscernible. “You’re nothing like I expected.”

“What am I supposed to say to that?”

Henrik’s throat did that hypnotic muscle slide thing again, as he planted his fists on the sink and leaned forward. Close. They were suddenly so close and she forbade herself to breathe in case he found oxygen intake offensive and pulled away. “Ailish?”

“Sup.”

The corner of his mouth jumped. “If you tell me the blood on that knife I found in Wisconsin belonged to the man who blackened your eye, I still won’t be happy, but I might be able to sleep tonight.”

Wariness blew across her senses, but its presence had little to do with an honorary cop asking her about witnessing a stabbing. It was more about wanting to tell him everything she’d been through since leaving Chicago. Maybe even before leaving. She’d never had a confidant before, and his eyes were so stabilizing. Everything about him was. But she’d been raised to keep her mouth shut at all costs. “I can’t tell you that.”